


say my name

by taywen



Category: Spinning Silver - Naomi Novik
Genre: F/M, Kink Negotiation, Names, Post-Canon, Yuletide Treat, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-23 22:37:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17089055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taywen/pseuds/taywen
Summary: Miryem suggests the Staryk say her name once in a while. He has a number of feelings on the matter.





	say my name

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChristyCorr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristyCorr/gifts).



Time took on a strange quality in the months after my lady and I were wed. 

My days had always been filled with the duties of kingship: maintaining the borders in the dark, securing my glass mountain, ensuring my people would have enough when summer came to the sunlit lands. Every idle moment was consumed with thoughts of keeping my people safe, particularly in recent years. I had not known how the demon Chernobog’s power had grown, for the mortals’ capital was at the very edge of my kingdom’s borders, and I had had no interest in which quicksilver king or duke or prince sat on the throne at any given moment; I cared only for the fastness of the mountain.

But my lady defeated the demon, and we healed the worst of the damage from its attack; our most pressing enemy was dealt with, and the lesser—but no less deadly—concerns were expertly handled by my lady as well. The records she had established to ensure we would not run short in the summer months were faithfully maintained by her bondswomen, though she took real pleasure in seeing to them herself periodically, as she did on this eve.

For my part, I was content to familiarize myself with the poetry that had accumulated since I had won the crown. It was almost a novelty to indulge myself, and it was true indulgence: I began with the most recent verses, the ones penned in the wake of the demon’s attack. The queen featured in the poets’ verses more prominently than I did—as it should be—and the recounting of her deeds enthralled me almost as much as the lady herself.

“You might say my name.” My lady’s voice broke the silence, as if she knew the direction of my thoughts. Her tone had not the quality of complaint, and so it took a moment for her words to properly catch my attention.

I looked up slowly from the epic I had been savouring: composed by a particular favourite of mine, who had come the closest to describing my lady as she was. A portion of my fascination with the more recent efforts by the poets came from the way she was depicted. They were always respectful, of course, but no two among them could agree upon her qualities, of which there were many, and none of the stories captured how provocative she could be, in every sense of the word. Part of me was glad of that: she was our queen, but I was her husband and she my wife; I was glad to be the only one who knew that side of her.

For the most part. At times, she seemed determined to provoke me for no reason other than that she could, as she was now.

“It would take but one other to overhear your name, and the entire mountain would know,” I said. Many of the Staryk loved her—none moreso than myself—and we well remembered what she had done to save us, but there would always be those who thought themselves better-suited to ruling than the ones who wore the crown. Public adoration for her would remain for years to come, but it was not a guarantee of safety.

“Shofer knows my name,” she said, the same way she might remark upon a snowfall or some other equally mundane topic, though it was belied by the intent look in her eyes.

I could not entirely repress my reaction to hearing the name she’d bestowed upon her bondsman, aggravated as I already was by the topic of conversation; there was no doubt that she saw it. Then the rest of her words registered, and aggravation gave way swiftly to outrage. I could not speak at first. It was not uncommon to keep your name even from your partner—especially among those of higher rank, where matches were often made for political reasons rather than for passion—but we had given each other our names when we married: signs of trust, affirmation of what we had gone through.

It had not occurred to me that she might have shared her name with others, too, or even just one other, but I did not like the thought. The one she called Shofer was her bondsman and I did not think he would betray her; that was not what incensed me, but I could not say why the idea provoked me so.

“You are free to give your name to whomever pleases you, Lady,” I said at length. My voice sounded as brittle as first ice to my own ears, the kind that cracked and gave way should the unwary tread upon it.

She tilted her head slightly, a line between her brows; beneath them, her dark eyes traveled over my face. I could not say what she saw, nor what she felt; I could only hope she found me as difficult to read as I did her, even now.

“The only Staryk I would have speak my name is you.”

The admission soothed me some, though I did not let it show; I bit back my first reply, that I should hope so since I was her _husband_ : I’d learned enough to know that some thoughts I would not hesitate to voice to one of my people could provoke an unexpected response in my lady. There were still many things that I did not understand about her, raised as she had been in the sunlit lands. The same could be said for her: I had once overheard her asking her bondswomen questions about forms that were so basic and fundamental to we Staryk that all of us simply _knew_ , so it was not that the questions we had agreed upon when she first came to my kingdom had been equal repayment for the contempt I had shown her, as I had once thought.

Perhaps that was what this was about.

“Names have power,” I said. She had seen me bind the demon with its name, but perhaps she did not realize that her name might be used to do the same. A mortal’s name had not the same power of compulsion, but my lady was no mere mortal. No one had spoken her name within our realm, though her family and friends used it freely in the sunlit lands. “They are not spoken lightly.”

“I don’t mean for you to announce it to the whole mountain.” Her voice was dry. “You can say it when we’re alone.” I did not answer immediately, turning her words over in my mind. It was a generous offer, but our people called her _Open-Handed_ for a reason. “Or don’t,” she added, exasperated now, “if the idea is so abhorrent to you.”

“It is not abhorrent.” That much I had decided upon in the few moments she had given me to consider. “Miryem,” I added, speaking with great care. The syllables felt unwieldy on my tongue; colour rushed to her cheeks and her eyes widened, but I did not think I had mispronounced her name. Indeed, speaking it aloud warmed me, but the sensation was not unpleasant—not remotely abhorrent.

Her lips parted around a sound, not a word in itself but the first syllable of myriad different words—my name among them. She stopped, and licked her lips, and suddenly I longed to hear my name on her tongue, though the very idea of another speaking it had been abhorrent only moments before.

“Say it.” The words escaped without conscious thought, but I had no wish to take them back.

Her lips curled into that smile—pleased, with herself and with me—that I only saw when we were alone. “Now, my husband?” Her voice had a teasing edge, deceptively soft—yet quite capable of turning sharp, should she so wish.

“Yes.” Hearing her claim me as _hers_ never failed to please me, yet it was not enough now. “Whenever you wish.” I drew in a sudden breath; it felt impossibly warm, as if I had lingered too long in the sunlit realm as winter waned—though the sensation was not unpleasant now. “So long as we are alone,” I added swiftly, for my feelings on the matter of those other than my lady knowing my name remained unchanged.

Her eyes softened and she rose, joining me on the couch. She sat so close that I could feel her warmth; I was always conscious of her when she was nearby, but it was impossible to ignore her when she was so near. She did not touch me, but her breath stirred the air near my face so that I wished she would close the distance between us. But I would not ask.

She moved just as I could bear it no longer, bracing one hand on my forearm and leaning closer: I could feel the heat of her even through the layers of my clothing, but before I could react to that, she murmured, her lips brushing my ear, “How shall I say your name, my lord?”

I shivered then, helpless to stop myself. “However you wish, my lady,” I replied, my voice hoarse; it cracked like ice frozen too quickly.

“May I use it?” Her tone was sweet, at odds with the suggestive words.

“The things you say,” I groaned, leaning in to her, driven to close what little distance remained between us myself. Her mouth was warm and wet and as intoxicating as the strongest fairy wine, though her soft laughter made it difficult to kiss her as thoroughly as I liked. Her hands burned on my skin—when had she peeled away my layers?—but I scarcely noticed; my body burned just as hot.

She turned her face from me, but her eyes glittered. I bent to kiss the line of her neck, but her hand in my hair drew me up short. “May I?” Then she whispered my name, her breath ghosting over my ear, and I shuddered all over, pressing her down against the couch. The bed was right there, but the scant paces were a distance too long to spare crossing.

“Miryem,” I said, kissing her anywhere I could reach. It was not enough. I would not beg, and yet I must. “Please, Miryem.”

She moaned my name, the word rendered strange and wonderful through her pleasure, and bade me to please her, so I did.


End file.
